Seventy Years Out the Window
by robinartemiselfhood
Summary: Just a little oneshot, the idea for which hit me like a cannonball while watching YouTube videos. Ending scene before the credits from Captain America: the First Avenger. Featuring O/C. Rated K because I'm paranoid and not sure if the movie is rated PG or PG-13. :)


**A/N:** this came to me in a lightning bolt of inspiration from watching videos on YouTube. Hope you like it! :)

 **I own nothing: no copyright infringement intended**

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\I/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\I/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/

 **Scene from Captain America: the First Avenger**

"All agents, Code Thirteen." My friend Lilian's voice blares through the parking garage, sending me racing for the nearest Lexus. Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. Nick Fury is already climbing into the back of one of them: I slide in before he could shut the door and start loading my pistol.

"Let's go," Fury shouts, not even bothering to buckle his seatbelt. The driver steps on the gas and we skid out into the streets of New York. I latch onto the door handle, trying to keep from throwing up, as the driver—his nametag says Ryan Wilson—throws the steering wheel to the right, making a sudden, reckless turn. Then he yanks it the other way, pressing down on the brake with his other foot but without releasing the gas. We skid sideways and Fury is out of the car before I can open my door. I scramble out in time to hear Fury say, "At ease, soldier!"

Rogers spins around, a lock of his golden blond hair falling across his forehead. His finely-muscled chest is heaving, either from panic or from the run he's just made, I can't tell. He stares as Fury walks up to him. My fingers close around the hilt of my pistol, safely holstered, as I settle into a ready stance a little behind and to the left of the director of S.H.I.E.L.D.

"Look," Fury says. "I'm sorry about that little show back there, but . . . we thought it best to break it to you slowly."

I tried not to let my surprise show on my face. That was the nicest thing I'd heard Fury say all week.

"Break what?" Rogers demands, still breathing hard. His voice is deep and has the tiniest bit of gravel in it, not enough to make him seem threatening but enough to add a handsome touch.

Fury pauses before answering. "You've been asleep, Cap. For almost seventy years."

I want to smack him right there, mostly because of the devastated look in Rogers's gray-blue eyes. Whatever happened to breaking it slowly?

The former World War II hero slowly looks around. I can see the outline of his collarbone beneath his white t-shirt. _Stop,_ I tell myself. _Just stop._ But I can't help but ask: "Are you going to be okay?"

"Yeah," Rogers says without looking at me, and the tone in his voice almost breaks my heart. "Yeah, just . . ." Here he swallows. "I had a date."

Well then.

"Come on," Fury says. Is that gruffness I hear? Is he genuinely _sad_ that Rogers is alive, awake? Is he feeling _sorry_ for him? My God, today's an all-around weep-fest from Fury.

"Let's get you somewhere to digest this," I say, when Fury doesn't speak.

Finally, Rogers looks at me. He takes in my features and an emotion I can't identify flits across his face. "Okay."

Am I too tall?

 _Shut up,_ I tell myself. _Just shut up. It doesn't matter that your five ten. Just help him get in one of the cars._

Rogers starts to walk, but stumbles. I slip past Fury and tuck my shoulder under Rogers's right arm, helping him stay up. It feels nice to be so close to someone for once, close enough that our body heat mingles. I haven't been this close to anyone since the disaster in Sydney, Australia. I saved Agent Quentin Devin's life and he repaid me by "keeping me occupied" (a.k.a. kissing me) until Hydra came and tried to murder the both of us. Thankfully, Agent Devin didn't make it out. That _may_ have been because I pushed him off the roof of the Sydney Opera House, but you know . . . details. Besides, he was Hydra. What was I supposed to do? Give him a hug and say that I didn't hold it against him for trying to stab me?

I help Rogers into the same car we drove here in and buckle his seatbelt for him, seeing as he can't figure it out. Fury opts to sit in the passenger seat this time around, so I'm not squashed between two people. He knows how much I hate that.

"What's your name?" Rogers asks. For some reason this makes me feel a rush of emotions, from pity to empathy to gratefulness. He's obviously picked up on my awkward vibes and is trying to bridge the gap. Now I understand why everyone in the forties always raved about his personality. He's just found out that he's been asleep for nearly seventy years, yet chivalry trumps shock.

"I'm Agent Zoe Schaeffer," I say. I hold my hand out. "Nice to meet you, . . .?"

He knows that I know his name; I can see it in his facial expression. But he shakes my hand. "Steve Rogers. Mind if I call you Zoe?"

No one's called me Zoe since I was sixteen. Eight years ago.

"Go right ahead, Steve," I say. Maybe it's time I stopped clinging to the past and opened the doors for the future. God knows I've never tried before.


End file.
